The Blue Lagoon

By Tuur Verheyde

“The sound of the rain

 needs no translation.”


I drink from the gourd

Of Alan Watts’s gilded

Talk— Please, Reader,

Listen to him talk—

And hangovers vanish

Like the spaces in between parted beings.


Wiggles of the world unite!

Cosmic consciousness fits

Nicely with my pop art begotten

Restless rascality.


The mosquito bites the iron bull

And I am bitten by Early Summer.

Thank  you, mister Fukui

You have brought sound to Satori—

Whatever a westerner such as I

Can grasp of it. 


Let us try to hug

This glory of whatever is.

Why must writing be

The canopic jar,

The service,

Either madness inconceivable,

Or the common denominator

Of clear—all too tangible—



Why not both?

Why not neither?

Why not paintings panting

Vividly to the sound of pop culture

And philosophic mumbling?

Why not have an impossible metaphysics,

Spiced by daily drudgery

Coloured in?


Let us be unoriginal, touch all lives

All truths, all clichés.

Let us be meaningless,


Writing from the inner eye only

Writing without an audience

In mind.

Let us be both and be

Profoundly genuine.


Let us be spellbound

By whatever flows

Into sensors soothing

And vexing.

Let the pain be a teacher.

Let the failure fall unto us

Like brimstone bombarding

Ancient Roman villas.


Let us be reckless in our love,

In our fangirling

In our sharing,

in our promoting.

Herr Freud, the unconscious is

A landline to demons and gods,

So what?


Let me have tea

With my primordial roots

With my over civilised literati.

No inferiority in the spontaneous.

No blasphemy in irrational

Purely personal worship.


Repress nothing, but willingly

Do no harm. And if failing,

Let no harm be done without

Lessons being made to follow.

Let there be laughter

On the secret face of God.

Let offence glide from shoulders

And feel lighter.

Let the world be flowing

And build no damn on behalf of shame.

Whatever comes

Whatever goes,

Shrug and say: “May Be”